Skinless
by hikachu
Summary: There are no walls anymore between the two of you, except for your own skin. KuroFay; PWP written for the Clamp anon meme.


"...Hah. You're one to talk."

"Yes," Fay answers, and his smile is so, so beautiful now, "I'm one to talk."

And you can feel, once again, that there are no more walls between the two of you; no meaningless smiles and words either, because, as different as you are, you both know that the best way to share feelings and thoughts is to let them flow freely through silence and glances and the occasional touch. As if even the smallest part of your beings was meant, created to understand the other since the very beginning.

And you realize your eyes are still fixed on his mouth, and it feels like you're seeing that expression for the first time, because it still makes your heart feel warm and lighter, as if that weight inside of you now is simply due to responsabilities and the consequences of the choiches you've made. There are no worries. All is fine--this is right, regardless of what will happen tomorrow or the day after that. Events, facts have nothing to do with how you feel in this small room (or whenever you're thinking of him, really).

Fay blinks; calls your name. You look away.

"Hey," he speaks again, and you can hear him frowning through his voice. He's worried. You don't want him to worry.

"What?" You say, and your tone is not gentle, but you know he doesn't mind. It's because he understands.

"For a moment I thought Kuro-pon had fallen asleep with his eyes open," and there is laughter, subtle and soft, barely hidden beneath his words. It's wonderful how everything feels natural and easy, and you can see that he's thinking that too: it's written all over his face: in the vivid light of his eye, the curve of his mouth and the radiance of his skin.

And so you sigh, and remove your head-dress, setting it on the table, but before you can go on and take off your cloak completely, he's once again in front of you, his now naked hands trying to figure out how to loosen the strings keeping the high collar together. You can see the pink tip of a tongue peeking out from the corner of his mouth--

"Ah, done!" The heavy, dark cloth is now pooling at your feet. Fay doesn't step back, though. His eyes roam over your face, your neck, your collarbone and shoulders, and he's still smiling, but his lips are twitching slightly, as if he's searching for words that keep on escaping him.

It only takes a few seconds, before you find yourself reaching out to cup the nape of his neck (which is so, so slender, and it's so weird how even the tiniest things about this person make you want to smile, make you feel oddly better) and then you press gently, bringing his face close to your bleeding shoulder.

"You take care of yourself too, now," you explain. Surprisingly, your voice is lower than you meant it to be.

The way his body stiffens--you can feel it clearly under your palm. The fondness you have for him makes you wonder if you did wrong.

But then Fay steps even closer, and his hands are on you: one gripping your right shoulder, the fingers of the other curving possessively around the curve of your ribcage. Then there's silence, and then his mouth is on your skin--you brace yourself, waiting for sharp teeth to sink into your flesh, and instead all you get is a kiss: nothing more than a quick peck; and when he raises his head to look at you, there's blood on his pink mouth, and even on the tip of his nose. He looks so childish; and you realize it's a strange statement, given the situation--and suddenly you remember your right hand holding him close, and you feel like moving, holding him even closer and pushing him away all at once. It's not that you're uncertain, but dealing with people--with him, sometimes it's just so complicated.

"J-Just go ahead!"

"Sure," he says cheerfully, merciful enough to decide not to comment on your stuttering, "as Kuro-sama wishes!"

There's again the soft press of lips on your damaged flesh, and then another and another and another--a slow path that ends on your heart, where he places a wet, open-mouthed kiss; his lips are moving, and it's not to tease, but rather to speak voicelessly--you know that for someone who used to tell so many lies, Fay is not good with words: you know, because it's the same for you, and so you simply circle his waist with your artificial arm, bringing him closer, burrowing your face into the crook of his neck, your nose moving against the collar of his vest until it gets loose enough for you to press your lips against his pulse. Fay's hand covers yours, intertwining your fingers briefly, guiding it to the clasps of his collar.

"Help me a bit, please?" he asks, and you do; your mouth never leaving his skin, only burrowing further in the curve between his neck and shoulder. And then your teeth are closing around bits of soft skin, sucking, scraping, but you're always careful not to hurt him--gentleness is not something that belongs to you naturally, and you know that Fay won't break (you know and you respect him for that now), but feelings dictate you do your best to cherish him--it's better to know that whatever pain-filled hiss may escape his mouth is due to your natural roughness, rather than a lack of care on your part. After all, even with all the blood you've shed in the past, you're no sadist.

One of Fay's knees is resting on the chair, between yours, and you almost gasp when it brushes against your thigh: Fay notices anyway, and lets it slide a little closer. Grunting, you lift your head to see his lips still working on your wound: his eye his closed, but his lashes flutter as if he's in bliss - this image is a fascinating one, and your hand is on the back of his head, tanned fingers between luminous strands. It's meant to be an encouraging gesture that he understands fully: finally, there are teeths puncturing your skin, and there is his tongue, moving with languid yet quick strokes, trying to catch every crimson droplet before it can roll lower. Fay moans, and his voice his soft and loud, while his fingers give you one last, painful squeeze before they're on his white vest, blindly trying to take it off; pleasure and irration mix in his muffled cries, and you'd smirk if you weren't feeling so dizzy from the blood-loss and the warmth of the body pressed to yours. And when you decide to help him to get rid of his garments, his nails are immediately back on you, scratching and leaving red half-moons and long, thin marks as he tries to take off your armor--and he succeeds.

You're still struggling with his clothes, when he whispers into your ear: "Silly," and his voice is too breathlees, failing to sound even remotely playful. Squirming against you, he finally manages to circle your wrists with his fingers and, as he begins a new attack on your neck (there are white spots dancing in front of your eyes and your head feels even lighter than before), he guides them on his body: the one made of metallic scales and thin wires on his cheek - and he keeps cradling it with his own - and the other on his chest. He lets your palm, your digits savour the feeling of different portions of his torso for brief intervals before he forces you to slide lower and lower again: across his protuding collarbone, then a nipple (and here he lets out a louder moan, involuntarily), his ribs and the graceful hollow of his stomach--you'd like to stop for a little while on his hipbone, to savour that illusory feeling of control (as if to make sure that no, he isn't going anywhere, because you don't want him to), but instead you let him explore your body and lead your hand to the front of his black trousers, and just touching him there, feeling that warmth, makes you jump a little--your artificial hand escapes Fay's to grasp the back of one of his slim thighs, digging into it, massaging it and quickly rising to cup the curve of his backside.

Fay squirms again, but soon he realizes with a frustrated sigh that getting any closer is impossible (there are no walls anymore between the two of you, except for your own skin), and, as if to compensate, he clutches your hand tighter, rubbing it against his groin, and you find yourself clamping his knee between your thighs, bringing it closer to rub yourself against it. He's kissing the corner of your mouth hungrily, as if he really wants to devour you--when he stops is only to take a deep breath and call your name, though a gasp breaks it in half together with his voice; there are new kisses: they rain all over your face, but it's your lips that receive the most of them. There's saliva running down your chin, and the faint, coppery taste on your tongue tells you that it's a mix of yours and his.

You're both trying your best to swallow your moans but, to Fay, it's as if calling out your name is important--as if he can explain, tell, confess many, many things simply through the slightest change (incrination) in his tone. And there are many strangled gasps of "Kurogane!" reaching your ears, and none can compare to the detached tone of that day in an acid-scarred city.

His free hand is on your cheek again, then quickly slides down, down, down: pale fingers slipping under the waistband of your trousers, and that's when you remember that, even though Fay won't break, he's still healing, and you want to show him that you trust him now--that he is loved once more. And so your force your hand away from the (now slightly wet) heath between his legs, taking the hand that was previously holding yours there into your palm. Fay's hands aren't small; they're strong, only deceptively delicate but still so very beautiful.

He's tense again--disappointed at the sudden lack of contact and dubious, dubting that you might have changed your mind. In order to explain him the reason behind your behaviour, you merely say: "Not like this," and Fay blinks then smirks, and suddenly you find yourself falling foward, on the floor.

Your knees hurt a little, but Fay's body (while too full of edges and sharp angles to be as soft as a woman's) kept yours from hitting the floor painfully. He's looking up at you, still smirking, panting; his hands resting with their creamy palms offered to your eyes and his chin tilted up. It's as if he's inviting you to go on, to do something - anything - and you feel yourself smiling in return.

Fay's arms come around your neck when your hands reach his waist, and it's a surprised gasp, rather than a lust-filled one, that escapes his throat when you reverse your positions, bringing him on top of you.

"I'm not the one doing all the work, today," you state, pressing your palms against his back.

"Oh? Is Kuro-sama feeling lazy today?" He asks teasingly, sliding on top of you, so that your chests are touching and his lips can reach yours. It's probably laughter, the sound that comes, muffled and unrecognizable, through the contact between your mouths, though you can't tell clearly whether it's him or you or both that's laughing.

His hands are cupping your face, and there's sweat under them, making them slip, but Fay's fingers curl, refusing to give up, and then one hand is once again playing with the waistband of your trousers--then it's his palm, ghosting teasingly over the damp cloth of your underwear. You hiss and close your eyes--your won't last long and--grasping his other hand, you bring it quickly to your mouth, sliding thin fingers into your mouth. You taste them avidly, sucking on each, and you would have kissed that white palm too, but now, now--

There's the noise of cloth sliding clumsily against skin, and there's Fay, with his black pants pooling around flexed knees, his weeping arousal hot against your stomach and thighs as he moves to take back his hand - the silvery strings of your saliva dribbling over his knuckles and his wrist; onto your own hand as he brings it to his mouth and spits into your palm, guiding it between his legs to lubricate himself before he takes care of you. Your fingers curl automatically around his lenght, and controlling yourself is hard, but you grit your teeth and let him move your hand as he pleases. Once Fay decides to release you, his wet fingers come to caress your entrance; his mouth is on your stomach, kissing and licking, and you don't know just how much of this you'll be able to take anymore before you go insane and--

With a quick, teasing lick right under your navel, Fay finally gets up and, with a grunt, he enters you, voicing loudly his pleasure as your muscles clench around him. At first, though, it's a little harder for you: your eyes sting, and your teeth sink into your lower lip. Luckily, though, while Fay does enjoy teasing you, he's also an attentive lover, determined to show you how much he cares: even in the messy, irrational throes of passion, his hands are gentle as they come to touch you--it's not that he's afraid to hurt you, rather, you can feel that he holds you dear even as his thrusts grow harder and faster, even as the dance of his hands gets rougher, even when he tries to kiss you on the mouth and your teeth clash. This is his magic, you suppose.

And when he comes, you know there's also blood - your blood - mixing with pearl-white semen, staining with bright red drops the white vest that's still hanging from his shoulders, but it doesn't matter.

It really doesn't, as he takes care of you with his hand - open palm splayed under your lenght and loving fingers moving, moving, moving - until you reach out to pull him down against you, taking him by surprise; you call his name silently, squeezing your eyes shut as your lips move against his scalp, blonde hair tickling your tongue.

Stars explode behind your eyelids; both your stomach and his feel sticky and wet and the stump of your left arm hurts, burns; it bleeds and Fay raises his head to kiss the point where flesh and metal meet, tasting the blood with the tip of his tongue. You wrap your arms around him, sated, yes, but still longing for more of his warmth, of this closeness. Then, for the second time, he's kissing the spot where your heart is still beating fiercely: once again his lips draw silent words across your skin, and you reply: "Yeah, me too."


End file.
